


stay lost in forever

by onakissgodknows



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Chicago Cubs, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 03:50:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onakissgodknows/pseuds/onakissgodknows
Summary: Since when did everything Kyle loves about baseball start adding up to Willson? Willson’s energy, Willson’s hard work (even when it’s not easy), Willson’s heart. Kyle thinks about it all the time. Sometimes they lock eyes across the dugout or in the clubhouse and Kyle lets himself imagine --





	stay lost in forever

**Author's Note:**

> This is genuinely a conglomeration of every Kyle/Willy fic I've started and abandoned since last May strung together with all the bits and pieces I didn't know I needed until now. I'm glad I didn't leave these to fester and instead stitched them into something resembling a story.
> 
> There is a little bit of Spanish spoken in this. It's pretty basic but if I somehow messed it up and embarrassed myself, I'm very sorry.
> 
> (I finally worked that damn 670 The Score interview into a fic.) 
> 
> Title is from "Legends" by Kelsea Ballerini.

_June 24, 2016, Marlins Park_

The rookie has a ton of energy and a ton of confidence, which is the first thing Kyle notices about him. Frankly, it’s the first thing everyone noticed about him – everyone nationwide, since that first at-bat home run was televised on ESPN. In the few days he’s been in the majors, he’s already racked up a second homer to go with the first.

Five days later, he’s settled down some, but Kyle can tell there are still jitters. He hasn’t started many games at catcher yet, and he’s never caught Kyle before, outside of brief interactions in spring training.

The Cubs homer twice in the first inning, including one by the rookie, which puts them up 4-0, but occasionally the baseball gods have to remind even the 2016 Chicago Cubs that they are human, and they are not untouchable.

The grand slam Kyle gives up in the bottom of the first is not Willson Contreras’s fault. Okay, so his framing isn’t great, so Kyle should have gotten a couple of those borderline calls, but giving up that home run is on Kyle, not Contreras. Still, Kyle drops his head when he hears Bour’s bat connect with the ball, because there’s no way it’s not ending up in the stands, and when he looks up he sees Contreras standing, dejected, behind home plate.

Kyle goes five innings and doesn’t allow another run. Contreras is clearly still nervous, dropping balls he shouldn’t and scrambling to pick them up, but they hold it together. Ultimately, it’s Contreras who singles in the seventh inning to drive in the winning run.

Contreras finds him in the locker room, after they’ve all showered and spoken with the media. His cocky grin is hitched back on his face. “Good game,” he says, and sticks out his hand.

Kyle can’t help grinning back as he shakes his hand. “Yeah. Good one.” With Ross regulated mostly to Lester’s starts, and Montero deserving of a break now and then, Kyle has a feeling Contreras is going to see plenty more time behind the plate.

Contreras bounces on the balls of his feet. “Sorry about – you know, in the first inning. Stupid mistakes.”

Kyle feels like he can’t really rib Contreras for being a rookie. He’s hardly a veteran himself. He shakes his head. “Not your fault. Don’t worry about it.” He grins again. “Keep hitting like you do, and I think we’ll be okay.”

Contreras looks like he could burst with pride.

_July 4, 2016, Wrigley Field_

The road trip has been shaky, so Kyle is more than ready to be home. The Fourth of July brings up his spot in the rotation, and the rookie’s back behind the plate. He’s been hitting like a monster, so why wouldn’t he? Contreras, eager to earn his keep, homers again early in the game.

They’re playing the Reds and get a big lead early, Cubs batters beating up on this opposing pitcher like it’s batting practice. Kyle even manages to bloop a single into center, which is always a nice cherry on top of a good game.

Kyle takes a shutout into the sixth but he’s thrown too many pitches to keep going, so he understands when Maddon pulls him out. He likes days like this. Lazy summer afternoons at Wrigley when everything works and Kyle doesn’t have to think too hard.  

The bullpen gives up some runs, but the good guys put up more, and the Cubs win.

Contreras comes into the locker room a little later than the rest of the team, because they interviewed him briefly on CSN after the game. He’s still full of energy even after nine innings in the hot sun, running around the room slapping fives with anyone who will stick their hand out.

“They asked me about you on TV,” Contreras says when he gets to Kyle, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him in for a quick hug.

Kyle laughs. “Hope you made me look good.”

Contreras is already bounding away. “Of course, man!” he calls over his shoulder. “All good things!”

_August 1, 2016, Wrigley Field_

They’re playing Miami again, at home this time. It’s quiet around the clubhouse today; last night’s game went twelve innings, and nearly everyone saw playing time, but as soon as Contreras steps onto the field he looks locked in. He tugs his mask down over his face and crouches behind the plate, his dark eyes fixed on Kyle from sixty feet, six inches away.

Willson. Kyle is getting used to calling him Willson. Willy even, like some of the guys do, but that feels so familiar and he isn’t sure how familiar he feels with Willson. Yet.

Willson flashes Kyle the sign for his first pitch. Kyle nods to Willson and throws, and the game is underway.

Kyle knows he’s not getting out of this game early, not with the entire bullpen taxed after last night, and Willson knows that too. It’s like the two of them locking eyes before the first pitch was a silent agreement – _okay, the bullpen picked us all up yesterday, we have to pick them up tonight_. Kyle felt it. He doesn’t know if Willson did, but if they’re getting better at communicating without words, that’s got to be a good thing, right? Sometimes he thinks Ross and Lester can read each other’s minds, and he can’t help but be jealous. That kind of relationship is special, and it doesn’t happen every day. If Kyle and Willson can have a fraction of the trust in each other that Ross and Lester have, this partnership can work.

As the game goes on, it only gets better. The defense is a little sloppy tonight, but Kyle is working out of jam after jam and Willson even picks off a runner to save Kyle an out.

It’s not perfect, but it’s all working. The offense is getting it done, Kyle gets an RBI of his own, and the defense makes up for some of the sloppiness with a couple of sparkling plays.

Kyle isn’t inclined to believe in magic or luck, but there’s something magical in the air at Wrigley tonight. There’s a connection between him and his catcher that they haven’t had in their previous starts together, and it isn’t perfect. But it’s _good_ and it’s _something_. It’s a start. 

Willson looks like he feels it too.

In the end, Kyle throws a hundred and twenty-one pitches, but he can barely feel it. He’s running on adrenaline and the roar of the crowd and Willson’s smile when he runs to the mound after they finish the complete game shutout. “Congratulations, man. Amazing,” Willson says, and he wraps him tight in both arms. Someone tosses Willson the game ball, and Willson drops it into Kyle’s glove. “Yours.” 

Kyle does the media thing, chats with Len and JD on air, and then in the clubhouse he collapses on a chair with a hand over his pounding heart, willing himself calm. He’s going to feel this tomorrow in his arm, but going the distance like this for his team makes it all worth it. And tonight’s only strengthened his relationship with his catcher.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t thought about Willson that way before. _His_ catcher. He smiles. He kind of likes it.

_August 7, 2016, Oakland Coliseum_

A cool but sunny day in Oakland earns Kyle another win. He’s starting to feel something. It’s been awhile since they lost a game Kyle started, and he’s trying not to let it go to his head, but God, it’s hard. It’s hard because this team just can’t stop winning. It’s hard because it’s not only Kyle that’s on fire, but the whole pitching staff. It’s every player on the team. It’s Willson Contreras, rookie catcher – so maybe Willson isn’t 2015 Kris Bryant. He isn’t 2010 Buster Posey. Maybe Willson did go 0-for-4 with a pair of strikeouts today, making him a little grumpy despite the win.

Kyle doesn’t care. Today was good. Whatever clicked between them against Miami has clearly carried over.

_August 13, 2016, Wrigley Field_

Someone points out to him, after they lose, that Kyle struck out twelve today. He can’t really bring himself to care much. It’s a game the bullpen blew, so it’s not Kyle’s fault, but losing sucks. Losing late at home to St. Louis sucks even more.

Willson still fist-bumps him in the clubhouse after the game, because of course he noticed how many strikeouts Kyle notched. He’s attentive about things like that.

_August 19, 2016, Coors Field_

A two-hour rain delay followed by eleven innings and a loss isn’t how Kyle wanted this start to go, either, but it happens. It’s one of those long, listless games where nobody can really tell how it gets away and by the end everybody just wants it to be over. Shower it off. Win tomorrow (and they do).

_August 24, 2016, Petco Park_

Kyle’s winning again. Willson, who has cooled off since he first came up, homers again. Everything works. The road trip goes out on a high note.

_August 30, 2016, Wrigley Field_

It’s a little jarring to look out at home plate and see Miguel Montero crouched behind it rather than Willson Contreras. It’s surprising because Kyle knows Miggy fancies himself Jake’s catcher, like Ross is Lester’s, but Kyle and Miggy have worked together plenty in the past and Kyle is certain he wouldn’t be the pitcher he is without Miggy. Miggy is awesome. Willson deserves a break.

All the Cubs scoring comes early, and Kyle throws seven shutout innings. The bullpen picks up where he left off, and the final score is 3-0.  

_September 12, 2016, Busch Stadium_

Kyle knows what’s happening, but it’s not real until he sits down next to Jake in the dugout during the seventh, and Jake gets up and moves without a word. “Hey, what – “ He stops. Everybody is going about their usual business, just without looking at Kyle, and Kyle’s alone on the bench.

That’s fine. This way he can focus on the game. “Don’t need any of you anyway,” he announces aloud, and he catches Willson glancing over his shoulder at him. Kyle laughs. “I see you, Willy.”

Willson flashes him a grin and a thumbs-up before Ross elbows him in the ribs to get him to stop. It’s bad luck to talk to a pitcher when something like this is going on.

He’s heard other pitchers talk about doing this and some of them have said they weren’t even thinking about it during the game. They’re liars. It’s impossible _not_ to think about it, especially after the rest of the team starts ignoring you between innings. It’s impossible not to get superstitious about it, even though Kyle isn’t normally. He hasn’t allowed himself to so much as think the words, but they’re there in his head, and in everyone’s. Everyone in the stadium knows what they could be witnessing.

The ninth inning, Kyle takes the mound and faces Jeremy Hazelbaker. He hits his spots, gets ahead in the count, and then there’s a pitch that just doesn’t drop the way Kyle wanted it to. It’s a mistake, and Hazelbaker hits it, and Kyle spins on the mound and watches it land in the stands.

The roar of the crowd is deafening, and Kyle remembers where he is, remembers that these are not the Friendly Confines and the people in the stands are not on his side. He exchanges a rueful smile with Miggy as he jogs to the mound and the rest of the infield converges on them.

Miggy pats him on the back. “Half the people here are cheering for you.” Kyle glances up at the stands – there’s more than a small smattering of blue mixed in with the red, and his heart leaps. Cubs fans do travel well, but they’re a particularly welcome sight in this ballpark.

Maddon’s at the mound too, congratulating him, but also telling him he’s out of the game. Kyle didn’t expect anything else. He pounds his fist into his glove as he walks off the field, and the crowd is still going nuts, and there are people in both blue and red on their feet. It feels wrong to tip his cap because this isn’t home, so he doesn’t, but he almost wishes he could.

Chapman closes the game without issue, and Kyle gets a bunch more pats on the back and handshakes and hugs, and he goes on the air with Len and JD again, both of whom are still dancing around the words “no-hitter,” but that’s what this _almost_ was.

Jake yanks him into another hug in the locker room. “Good job, man,” he says, pounding him on the back.

“Thanks. Means a lot.” It really does, coming from Jake.

The visitors’ clubhouse is buzzing; even though he didn’t complete the no-hitter the entire team is fired up, Kyle included. A win is a win, which is what Kyle said to Len and JD, and he means it. Yeah, this was about as fun a game as he’s ever pitched, of course he wishes he could have completed the no-no. But this doesn’t diminish his season, and the Cubs pick up another win.

Willson corners him later as the team is mostly dispersing and heading back to the hotel. Kyle’s still there packing up his stuff, because the press took longer with him tonight. “That was incredible to watch,” Willson says, almost breathlessly, his eyes wide. Kyle remembers that Willson didn’t come up until June; he wasn’t here for Jake’s no-hitter in April. This is the first time he’s watched a major league pitcher come close to one.

“Thanks, man.” Kyle pounds his fist against Willson’s.

Willson sits down next to him. “You and me next time.”

Kyle laughs. “Yeah, next time I take a no-hitter into the ninth I’ll make sure I do it with you behind the plate.”

“Good. I wanna catch a no-hitter.”

Kyle laughs again, because of course Willson wants to catch a no-hitter. Willson wants everything without a sense of what’s actually attainable.

Willson keeps looking at him. “When he hit the home run…” He hesitates. “What did that feel like?”

Kyle laces up his shoes, pondering. Answering a question like this from a fellow player rather than a reporter is different. “I mean, it didn’t feel great,” he says honestly. “Disappointed for sure. But also, like, a little relieved.” He laughs. “Only because it was over and I didn’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Willson looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “ _Relieved_? Didn’t you want to finish it?”

“Of course I did,” Kyle says defensively. He doesn’t like the disgusted tone Willson’s taken. “Like I said, only because I wasn’t worried about it anymore. Even if I’d finished the no-hitter I would have been a little relieved when it was over.”

“What are you afraid of?” Willson says incredulously.

Kyle furrows his brow at him. “I’m not afraid.”

Willson gets to his feet. “Then you shouldn’t be relieved. That’s _stupid_.”

“No-hitters are really rare, Willy! I’m not gonna beat myself up for not finishing one!”

“I didn’t say you should.” Willson glares at him. “We have a guy on this team who threw two no-hitters.”

“Jake’s a Cy Young winner,” Kyle points out. “He’s on another planet.”

“You think you’re not?”

“I – “ It feels wrong to expect himself to accomplish something that’s so difficult to do. Jake threw two no-hitters. Jake won the Cy Young. But – there’s this other voice in the back of his head, gaining strength. _I want the Cy Young_. It hits Kyle like a freight train, like he’s been fighting back this possibility, the pressure he’d be putting on himself to think it. The team always comes first, they’re always Kyle’s number one priority. But he wants the Cy Young. He wants the recognition, the validation, the fuck-you to everyone who thought he threw too soft to make it as a big league pitcher. He wants the World Series. He wants the Cy Young.  

Willson’s nodding, a grin creeping back onto his face. “You know how good you are.” He kicks at Kyle’s foot. “Don’t fucking downplay it.”

_October 8, 2016, Wrigley Field_

Kyle’s regular season wraps up with the team taking a loss and a couple more wins in his final three starts. Not that his regular season performance matters now, because it’s the postseason and the postseason is insane. They’ve done this before, last year, but Kyle still isn’t used to the energy. Wrigley is always loud, but when sun goes down on Chicago in October and the temperature drops, it’s electric. Everyone is amped up after the tense game one and the Baez heroics to win it, but it’s game two and Kyle has to execute.

Willson is behind the plate, coiled like a spring ready for release. A shiver runs up Kyle’s spine as he takes the mound, and he’s not sure if it’s the cool breeze or the anticipation of the game to come. Still, Kyle knows he’s known for his calm demeanor, and there’s no reason to change that. It’s the postseason, but Kyle knows he’s good enough for this. He tugs the brim of his cap down and throws to Willson.

As it turns out, Kyle isn’t long for this game. In the fourth inning, a soft comebacker nails him in the forearm. At first, it feels like nothing, and he scrambles to recover and throw the ball to Rizzo at first, but the runner beats it and his throw is a little offline anyway.

He shakes out his arm, pacing around the mound. Willson is at his side immediately. “You okay? Where’d it hit you?”

“Forearm,” he says to Willson. Their head trainer approaches him, and Kyle repeats himself. The rest of the infield and Maddon converge on him too. His arm is tightening up and starting to swell.

He takes some practice throws – the first is wide and Willson has to jump out of his crouch to catch it. The next few are better, but he doesn’t like the way they’re moving. If it was a regular season game, he’d keep going, but this isn’t the regular season and this is supposed to be their year. If he has to miss time, he’d rather it be now than later in the postseason, and he tells Maddon as much. Maddon agrees, and PJ Mainville wants him to get x-rays to be on the safe side. Willson bumps their fists together, and Kyle taps him on the thigh almost unconsciously as he walks off the field.

Kyle leaves to a round of applause, and it turns out okay because in the bottom of the inning their relief pitcher Travis Wood hits a home run, so maybe everything happens for a reason.

_October 22, 2016, Wrigley Field_

Kyle Hendricks is on top of the world.

It’s like he’s drunk on it, dizzy with how this feels, the high of what they’ve accomplished, what _he’s_ accomplished.

They beat the Dodgers. Kyle out-pitched the best pitcher in the game. They’re going to Cleveland for the World Series.

Kyle went 7.1 innings. He gave up two hits, no runs. As good as it felt to pitch that night in St. Louis, this feels better. There’s fire in his veins now to go with the ice he’s known for.

Everything’s surreal. Walking off the field in the eighth inning, his warmup song blaring from the speakers at Wrigley, he can’t help himself from turning his head to look into the visitor’s dugout as he goes, just to see their faces.

After it’s over, after the awards have been handed out (Jon Lester and Javy Baez, co-MVPs of the NLCS), they hit the clubhouse and the place is drenched in liquor within minutes. Anthony Rizzo spends a few minutes yelling in Kyle’s face and then he runs off elsewhere, to get drunk or to hang off Kris Bryant or whatever it is Anthony Rizzo does.

He doesn’t see Willson at first, but then Willson throws himself at Kyle, yelling incoherently, and Kyle wraps his arms tight around Willson’s waist, actually lifts him off his feet for a second. “Amazing!” Willson shouts. “What’d I tell you, man?”

“Well, it’s not a no-hitter,” Kyle laughs, letting go of him.

“Who gives a _fuck_?” Willson throws his arms open, grinning broadly. “We’re going to the World Series, baby!”

“Listen,” Kyle reaches out and tugs him closer to be sure Willson can hear him; it’s loud in here, “thank you! You called an awesome game. Wouldn’t have gotten it done without you.” It’s the best game he’s pitched in his life, including September in St. Louis. He and Willson were so locked in, so in sync with each other, he can’t imagine it having gone any other way. Everything’s happening the way it’s supposed to.

Willson laughs and smacks his cheek lightly, pats him on the head. “Easy when it’s you on the mound.”

Kyle can’t help laughing with him. “Willy. Do you _ever_ get nervous?”

Willson shrugs. “Why would I? We’re the best team in baseball!”

The kid does not know what failure feels like. Kyle watches him disappear back into the crowded clubhouse, and realizes he’s starting to forget what failure feels like, too.

It’s a dream. This whole season is a dream, and Kyle isn’t ready to watch it end, not for him, not for Willson, not for this team. They’re seeing this through to the end.

_November 2, 2016, Progressive Field_

Of course, it comes down to this. A game seven between two franchises who haven’t won in a combined one hundred and seventy-six years. It’s all on the line tonight, and Kyle is trying not to let history weigh him down.

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he’d be the starter for game seven of the World Series. It seems more of a job for Arrieta. For Lester. Not for Kyle, who tops out at 89 miles per hour on a good day. But then again….

He tries not to think about the references to Maddux that have followed him all summer long, but he knows that’s who everyone likes to use as a comp for him.

Despite what should be an overwhelming situation, Kyle is calm when he steps onto the mound. He’s used to the roar of the postseason crowd now – it’s white noise. All that matters is watching Willson’s eyes and hands, throwing the pitch he asks for, and making sure it ends up in a glove.

Dexter Fowler’s leadoff home run put everybody in a good mood, and Kyle’s cruising. He knows if he gets into trouble Maddon won’t hesitate to take him out, but for now he feels good. Adrenaline is pumping through his veins, but his pitches come out steady.

He only runs into trouble with two outs in the fifth, when he allows a walk, and that’s enough for Maddon.

Passing the baton to Jon Lester does not make him nervous. Lester has been on this stage before, and Kyle is sure he won’t falter. His only regret is that Kyle leaving the game means Willson leaves the game, because no one catches Jon Lester but David Ross.

Lester and Ross fall apart when they come in. Two runs score on a wild pitch, and Willson catches Kyle’s eye in the dugout, worried, and Kyle knows he wishes he was still in the game. He shakes his head at him, just a little, like he’s shaking him off, and goes back to watching the game. It’s all he can do at this point.

Ross homers in the next inning, and it takes Kyle’s breath away. How can everything – _everything_ – happen like this? How can this go down like something Hollywood drew up? Kyle does not believe in fate or magic or curses or in breaking them, but it seems like he’s been reminding himself of that an awful lot this year.

It’s smooth and steady until the eighth, and then Rajai Davis ties the game with one swing of the bat.

You would think a bomb had gone off in Progressive Field. Kyle almost wants to clap his hands over his ears so he doesn’t have to hear it, but it only lasts a second, then time slows down. They watch Davis round the bases in what seems like slow motion. The game is tied in the bottom of the eighth.

The ninth comes and goes, and they do not score.

Then, as if this night couldn’t get any stranger, comes the rain.

They file, dejected, one by one into the clubhouse. No one speaks.

Jason Heyward calls a meeting. They talk. More than a few guys cry. The rain ends.

They go back to the dugout, and Kyle hangs over the rail, because it’s all he can do. Willson, Ross, and Lester are all next to him, all out of the game for good. “We’re going to win,” says Willson, and Kyle smiles and bumps his shoulder against Willson’s.

“Yeah,” says Ross, though he looks less sure than he sounds. “Nobody better to have comin’ up than Schwarbs, KB, and Rizz.”

Single. Sac fly. Walk. Then Ben Zobrist doubles to score the go-ahead run, and the stadium explodes all over again, but this time the explosion is a good one. Kyle exchanges a wide-eyed look with Willson, who’s grinning all over his face. “We’re going to win!” Willson says again, punching him in the shoulder.

“Don’t get too damn ahead of yourself,” Ross says. He gnaws on a thumbnail. “There’s half an inning left to go.” Kyle catches Ross grinning too, though, and knows he feels it.

Miggy singles in another run, and it turns out they need it, because Cleveland scores one in the bottom of the tenth. But with Mike Montgomery on the mound and a slow roller towards third, Kris Bryant fires the final out of the World Series into Anthony Rizzo’s glove, and the curse is broken.

There are no words, but this is so, so much better than Kyle ever imagined it being. There’s the celebration on the field, and that celebration moves to the clubhouse, and the place is even more insane than it was after the NLCS. Everyone’s drinking, everyone’s shouting, and Kyle thinks he might lose his voice by tomorrow.

Hugs are not hard to come by tonight, but when Willson finds him he’s obviously been crying, and he throws his arms around Kyle and hugs him tight.

“Whoa, buddy,” Kyle says, hugging him back. “You okay?” He brushes his cheek lightly as Willson pulls away and grins at him. “Smile. We won. Like you said.”

Willson nods, and looks like he’s going to burst into tears all over again. Kyle laughs. “Willy, it’s okay.”

“I know, I know!” Willson scrubs at his eyes with his wet sleeve and blinks repeatedly. “I – I’m not upset, Kyle, I’m _so happy_. I can’t believe…”

Kyle knows what he means. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“I don’t want to – to ever, ever forget this.” His eyes are bloodshot, and Kyle’s sure part of it is from how much beer has been dumped in them, but man, this kid is emotional.

It’s an intense night and even though Kyle isn’t a crier, he’s come as close as he’s ever been. He wouldn’t trade this night for anything, even the bad parts like the eighth inning home run, the rain delay when everything seemed lost, the fact that for over half of the game he’d been sitting useless on the bench – part of what makes this night so amazing is the contributions from every person on this team. He pulls Willson into another tight hug, and Willson squeezes him back like he’s afraid to let go. They’re running on adrenaline and Kyle’s heart swells with emotion and affection for his team ( _for Willson_ ), but Kyle can’t find the words to express what he wants to say. He wouldn’t be here without Willson.

He doesn’t know how to say that to him.

He finally lets go of Willson and rubs his head. “Hey, next time we do this, we’ll make it a no-hitter, huh?”

Willson laughs, and it lights up his whole face. “Yeah. Yeah, you better be ready for next year.”

Next year will come soon enough, and this night will be a memory. Willson still doesn’t know failure. He will; there will be plenty of time for that in the future, but it isn’t tonight. This feeling is warm enough to last them all winter.

_2017_

As magical as 2016 was, nothing good lasts forever, and the Cubs’ 2017 season gets off to a bumpy start, sputtering along and unable to take flight. They’ve lost some of the key players in their World Series run, for sure – Ross has retired and Fowler opted for the free agent market and ended up in St. Louis – but the core of that World Series team is still there.

So what’s wrong with the Cubs this year?

Kyle’s trying not to ask himself that, but it’s all the media can talk about.

He’s tired. He tries not to buy into the World Series hangover theory, but it’s easy to be energized for every game when your team is the best in the league, and when it’s a grind like this year it’s so much harder to get excited.

He shouldn’t think like that. Of course every day is exciting and he’s thrilled to be able to do what he loves every day, but this is an entirely new mindset - that they’re World Champions, and they’re struggling. It is not the easiest thing to get used to.

Besides, his hand kind of hurts and his velocity is down (which is huge, when you’re Kyle Hendricks).

It’s been niggling at him all season, but he hasn’t wanted to make a big deal of it, because he thinks if he fixes what’s wrong with the rest of him, his hand and velocity will follow. Something’s up with his mechanics, and he’s been trying to fix it for a month.  

Today’s game – an interleague game at home versus the Yankees - is long over. Kyle has gone through the motions with reporters – yes, he feels good, yes, he’s still getting better, no, he isn’t all there yet but yes, he’s happy with the five-and-a-third innings he pitched today – but Kyle doesn’t feel like going home yet.

He also doesn’t feel much like socializing with the rest of the team. He’s not _angry_ , but it’s hard not to be disappointed in an outcome like this. He knows most of the guys are – Rondon notably so, which is understandable as he picked up the loss today after blowing the save in the ninth inning. Last Kyle had seen of Rondon he was with Willson and Pedro Strop, both of whom seemed keen on calming him down.

Kyle wanders away from the locker room, letting his feet carry him wherever, and ends up in the weight room. He’s not interested in working out right now, but it’s empty, and Kyle doesn’t mind being alone with his thoughts. It’s preferable to being around anyone else. Most of his teammates had congratulated him, if a little hollowly, on his performance, but Kyle’s not quite back to his old self and he knows it, feels it when he misses his spots and gives up hard contact.

Kyle surveys the empty weight room and briefly thinks about doing some yoga by himself as long as he’s there (it’s not like he has anything else to do), but discards the idea, feeling self-conscious. Instead he leans against the wall and sinks to the floor, letting out a long breath. He’s tired. He shouldn’t be, but pitching is hard and draining once the adrenaline wears off, no matter how good you are.

And Kyle Hendricks is still good, even if the results don’t show it. He pitched five-and-a-third shutout innings today and it’s still a rush. Every strikeout, every jam he works his way out of, every time he sees one of his outfielders make a play like the one that robbed Castro of a hit today – Kyle feels _so alive_.

The door opens and Willson walks in. “There you are,” he says.

Kyle is particularly glad now he didn’t decide to do yoga, because he’s not sure how he feels about Willson walking in on him in the middle of, like, downward dog or something. “Hi,” Kyle said, rubbing his hand through his hair, which is still damp from the shower.

Willson’s eyes flick from Kyle to the weights. “Need a spotter?”

Kyle laughs. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”

Willson, dressed in a gray t-shirt and loose black shorts, sits down next to him without further ado. “Hector says sorry.”

Kyle smiles. “I’m not mad at Hector.”

“You sure?” Willson says. “If I were you – “

“You wouldn’t be,” Kyle says. It’s not his record the loss goes on. It’s not his ERA that took a beating today. If anything, he feels _bad_ for Rondon. He knows how much shit like this sucks. And Willson, kindhearted soul that he is, would feel the same in Kyle’s shoes.

“No, but like, I’d understand if you were.”

Kyle shrugs. “It’s baseball. This stuff happens.”

Willson taps his fingers on his knee. Willson is always moving, except when he’s behind the plate and his dark eyes lock in on the ball in his pitcher’s hand – and even then, he’s potential energy, waiting to burst into motion.

If there’s anything about this season that feels different from last season it’s that Willson has a lot more on his plate. He’s spent so much time trying to get on the same page with Jon Lester, who is a head case to begin with (great pitcher, but a head case), and now that Lester’s best friend and security blanket is gone, Willson has taken it upon himself to forge his own path as Lester’s catcher. Part of it is out of necessity ( _someone_ has to catch Lester whether he likes it or not) and part of it, Kyle’s sure, is Willson’s unending desire to get better, better, better. Kyle loves playing with Willson because he leaves it all out on the field every day and Kyle does the same.

Besides that, Kyle and Willson just click. Kyle, though he’d never admit it to Ross or Montero, is happiest with Contreras behind the plate. He shouldn’t feel bad to admit it – he’s positive Arrieta likes pitching to Montero best, but then again Arrieta would never say so either. If asked, he’d diplomatically pick over the issue like Arrieta always does whenever he’s asked a question he doesn’t want to answer outright. Arrieta’s awfully good at that. Kyle should try and pick up a thing or two from him. (Of course, when Arrieta does want to answer a touchy question he will, and he’ll do it as bluntly as possible, and no one can stop him, because Arrieta will do whatever he wants, because he can’t fathom doing otherwise.)

If Lester is one end of the spectrum and Arrieta the other, Kyle wonders where he falls.

“If it helps,” Willson says, “you looked really good today. Like you had it.”

Like he did last year.

“Thanks,” Kyle says.

Willson flexes his hand and mimes throwing. “Feel better?”

Kyle laughs. “Getting there.”

Willson grins his crooked grin. “Knew you’d be you again soon.”

Kyle dips his head, bashful for some reason. “Hopefully still getting better.”

Willson pats Kyle’s hand, then pulls away quickly, as if remembering himself. “You hiding in here or what?”

Kyle shrugs. “No, just looking for some alone time.”

“Oh, sorry.” Willson looks a little sheepish. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay.” It is, actually. Even when Kyle wants to be alone, he doesn’t mind being around Willson. “I wasn’t trying to get away from you. Just, you know.” Everything else.

Willson seems like he gets it. He stretches out his legs and leans against the wall, closing his eyes. He knocks his feet together a few times. They sit in comfortable silence for what feels like it could be five minutes or half an hour, then Willson reaches over again and gives Kyle’s hand a squeeze. “See you tomorrow.” He gets up and heads for the door.

It’s abrupt, but that’s how he is. Kyle doesn’t mind. As many people as there are on this team, Willson is one of the only ones who really makes Kyle feel understood.

xxx

May slips away into June before Kyle even realizes it’s come and gone. As the weeks have worn by, Kyle has shared most of his starts with Miguel Montero behind the plate. And that’s fine! Miggy is a good catcher and a good teammate, he knows Kyle really well and he knows what he’s doing behind the plate. And Joe Maddon, presumably, knows what he’s doing with his lineup.

It’s only that, well, Kyle’s not feeling 100% and he feels safer with Willson behind the plate, despite Willson’s occasional wild throws to first. But tonight it’s Miggy, and Kyle has worked a lot with Miggy lately, and they’re playing the Cardinals and they’ve been doing pretty well against the Cardinals in this series, so Kyle can’t be too worried.

He exchanges a grin with Dexter Fowler as Dexter settles into the batter’s box – batting left-handed, which seems to be his preference these days – and it starts.

Kyle stays out of trouble until the fourth inning, at which point things go sideways fast. After it’s all said and done, Kyle throws forty-three pitches in the fourth inning alone, and their 1-0 lead turns into a 4-1 deficit. His spot in the lineup is coming up in the bottom of the fourth, which means he’s definitely out of the game. Kyle will not be batting when they have so much ground to make up.

He slings his glove onto the bench with more aggression than intended and then slumps down next to it. His hand hurts. He’s been playing like this for weeks, the pain coming and going, but when it gets bad like it is now, Kyle has a tough time commanding his pitches. He can’t keep going like this; he has a feeling this might be the final straw.  

Jake claps him on the shoulder and shakes his head. He doesn’t need to say anything – Kyle knows he’s been in Kyle’s shoes. Sometimes things go your way, sometimes they don’t, and that’s the game they play.

Kyle looks down the dugout and finds himself meeting Willson’s eyes. Kyle shrugs as if to say _what can you do_ , and Willson’s mouth twists into a frown. He looks restless, tapping his fingers on his knees and Kyle can tell he wants to play. Especially in a game like this, Willson is never content to sit on the bench.

Willson gets his chance sooner rather than later, first pinch hitting for Grimm in the bottom of the fifth, then staying in to catch when Rondon comes in to pitch. Something pinches in Kyle’s chest as he watches Willson jog out for a meeting on the mound with Rondon, his arm around Rondon’s waist and the pair of Venezuelans no doubt conversing in rapid Spanish that Kyle always tries to understand but never can.

It only hurts because Kyle wishes he could have gone at least five innings - not because he cares about pitcher wins and losses, but because the bullpen is taxed this season, and he owes it to his team to be better. He doesn’t really know why he fell apart so fast, but it always kills him to come out of a game this early and have to sit in the dugout and watch. At least when he came out of the World Series he knew he’d done the absolute best he could.

By some miracle – or by the offense finally coming alive – they win. It’s not easy and it takes everything in them but they win – they sweep, in fact. Sweeping the Cardinals is always a good feeling, and Kyle is cheerful as they head into the clubhouse. Strop gets the win, Kyle doesn’t have to take a loss, and this weekend almost heals the sting of the past few weeks.

Kyle’s sitting in front of his locker, toweling his hair dry, when Willson finds him. He nudges Kyle’s foot with his own. “Got the win,” he says happily.

“Barely,” Kyle says with a laugh. “Take what we can get, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Willson says. “Wanna come get something to eat? Going with Javy.”

It’s kind of Willson to offer but Kyle shakes his head. He has to meet with the trainers. Everyone watching today has to know something’s wrong with Kyle, and they might kill him if he leaves without getting looked at. “Go ahead.”

“Sure?” Willson asks and when Kyle nods, he shrugs and holds out his fist. Kyle smiles and bumps his fist with his. “See you tomorrow.”

The next afternoon Kyle and Willson are scheduled for an appearance on 670 The Score over the lunch hour. It’s the first time in quite awhile the two of them have seen each other outside of the ballpark – maybe it’s even the first time ever? Kyle can’t really remember. It stands to reason that they would have, but Kyle can’t for the life of him think of the last time. He also wonders why he’s thinking about that, of all things.

They’re introduced on the radio as the “Game 7 battery,” which still gives Kyle a thrill to think about. Isn’t it strange how they’ve worked themselves into legend? They’re too young to be legends, but they are. Everyone on that 2016 team has their names etched into history. Kyle’s still working on grasping the enormity of it.

Willson, it turns out, is great on the radio. The two of them keep up an easy rapport with the hosts, and the conversation manages to be fun and engaging, which isn’t always the case with the media. The hosts are well-prepared, too – a couple of weeks back Willson went viral after being caught on video playing catch with a little boy during a rain delay at Wrigley. The boy and his mother are in the audience at the radio station; the boy is star-struck when he’s reunited with Willson, and the two of them play a little catch again. Kyle, again, has that strange sensation of something pinching in his chest as he watches them.

Sometimes Kyle looks at Willson and sees a superstar on the rise. This is a franchise player; on any other team, one that maybe doesn’t have the talent the Cubs do, Willson is somebody to build around, somebody who would be the heart of the team.

Kyle isn’t sure Willson can necessarily be all that for the Cubs; they have Anthony Rizzo, after all, but when Willson leans into his microphone and boldly proclaims his desire to stay in Chicago for twenty years, it’s hard to imagine he _won’t_ be.

After the interview, Willson is all happy and chipper, and it’s infectious. “What are you doing until the game?” he asks Kyle as they leave the radio station.

Kyle shakes his head. “I have to go in early and get my hand looked at again.” Until then, he’s free, but that only gives him a few hours.

Willson takes his hand like it’s nothing and lifts it like he’s examining it, as if he’s a doctor. “You okay?”

Kyle shrugs. “You know how it’s been.”

Willson lets go of his hand and gives him a tap on the back of the thigh, like they’ve just finished having a meeting on the mound. “Hope it’s not bad. Miss catching you.” He grins at Kyle and warmth pools in Kyle’s stomach, and he can’t help grinning back.

“I miss having you behind the plate, too,” Kyle says.

Willson laughs. “Don’t let Miggy hear you.”

“I love Miggy. He knows that.” Not all catchers would be as patient with a young pitcher as Miguel Montero was to him.

Willson laughs again, shaking his head. “You need me for what, then?”

There’s something almost _flirtatious_ in Willson’s voice, but Kyle doesn’t know if he’s doing it on purpose. They’re on a busy sidewalk in the middle of Chicago. It’s an odd place to start being flirty if that’s indeed what Willson’s trying to do.

Kyle’s probably misreading him. “I should actually probably go home before I go to the field.”

Willson still looks amused. “No problem. I’ll see you later.” He thumps Kyle on the back and they go their separate ways.

The verdict is tendinitis, primarily afflicting the middle finger of his right hand. The sentence is the ten-day disabled list. Kyle can’t say he hasn’t seen it coming.

The Cubs are playing the Marlins at Wrigley, and Kyle settles into the dugout next to Jake like he usually does when he’s not playing. He tries to get used to the idea that _not playing_ is what he’ll be doing a lot until the trainers are satisfied his hand is healed.

It’s a bummer, but he’s had a decent day, so he doesn’t feel as upset as he might otherwise.

Willson comes up to him in the dugout. “You didn’t tell me you might go on the DL.” He scowls at him.

Kyle opens his mouth to answer, but Jake grabs him by the scruff of the neck and gives him a little shake. “He’s just got a little tendinitis of the middle finger,” Jake explains to Willson with a barely-concealed smirk. “Flipping too many people the bird will do that to you.”

Kyle flips Jake off with his left hand. “Watch out, or it’ll happen to my other hand, too.”

“Hendricks!” Jake exclaims with a laugh. “Easy on the attitude. God, you think you know a guy, then he’s in Cy Young contention and he turns into a diva.”

“You’d know all about that,” Kyle shoots back. He likes Jake. He’s an acquired taste, for sure, but he’s a good friend and he ribs Kyle because he knows Kyle will dish it back.

“Got somethin’ to say you might as well say it,” Jake says, all mock outrage.

Kyle shakes his head and laughs. “I know better.” He looks up at Willson. “Sorry. I figured I might land on the DL, but you know. You kind of hope for the best so you don’t want to talk about it.”

Willson sighs and punches him in the left shoulder lightly. “Sorry, man. Glad you’re gonna get healthy.”

“The sooner the better,” Kyle says fervently, and Willson walks away to get his gear on and start the game. They win 3-1, and all in all, it’s not a bad day.

xxx

Pitching is about control, especially for someone like Kyle who relies on precision to be successful. He’s never going to blow anybody away with his fastball, but the curve is another story. But it’s all in his grip, the way he can manipulate the ball through the air to hit the precise spot his catcher wants him to. When Kyle is at his best, he’s better than anybody at doing that. There’s no better feeling than knowing he can strike out a batter with his next pitch, and he’s so rarely felt that way this year. Kyle can’t in good conscience say he’s ready to go again until he’s sure he has that control. He can’t subject his team to another outing like his last one.

The month drags on, and _drags_ is the right word for it, because being on the DL makes every day feel like an eternity. It isn’t a great month for the team, either. They can’t catch the momentum they need to pull ahead in the division. They can’t even get enough momentum to get above .500 and stay there.

It’s hell for Kyle. As far as control goes, Kyle’s never had less over his team’s outcome.

Nobody is having fun. The mood in the clubhouse after wins is relief, and after losses it’s tense and horrible, everybody blaming themselves, or worse, looking for somebody else to blame. Kyle can hardly stand to be there.

It comes to a head at the end of June, after a game in D.C. during which Jake and Miggy gave up seven stolen bases. Miggy’s frustration explodes after the game, and everyone sees the videos after, of Miggy blaming Jake for the stolen bases.

Kyle shouldn’t be surprised when he gets the alert the next day, but it’s still a shock to his system when he sees it.

**_The Chicago Cubs today designated C Miguel Montero for assignment_**.

Kyle scarcely knows his own team when he walks into the visitor’s clubhouse at Nationals Park that day. Rizzo is furious, angrier than he’s ever seen him (“ _What does he think he’s doing? Throwing his own teammates under the bus like that, who the fuck does he think he is?_ ”) and Kris is there, trying to calm him down (“ _Anthony, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter now ‘cause he’s not here anymore!_ ”) and Jake is being a diplomat (“ _Rizz, you know he was right anyway, I played like shit yesterday_ ,”) and Anthony paces and kicks things and keeps yelling.

“Does anybody else feel like this entire team has lost their minds?” Kyle says. He says it in a normal tone of voice, not quiet, but nobody hears him. Kris and Jake are busy calming Anthony down. Javy has earbuds in, and Addison clearly does not want to get involved.

Willson is probably already warming up with Lackey, today’s starter, but Kyle wishes he wasn’t. As strange as it is, Willson is the only person who’s stayed steady through this roller coaster of a half-season.

_Gosh, that isn’t true_ , he berates himself, but he can’t help thinking it.

Maybe it isn’t the team that’s collectively lost its mind, but just Kyle. These past few weeks _have_ been hell, when every step towards recovery sends him two back, and he’s starting to think this damn tendinitis will never leave him.

He gets dressed quickly, puts on his blue Cubs gear even though he’s barely a Cub right now, an invisible pitcher with a bum hand. Somebody turns on music in the clubhouse, but it does nothing to diffuse the tension. Jake’s given up on Rizzo – probably washed his hands of the situation with a “ _you know what? You deal with it_ ,” to Kris. Kris is dealing as best Kris can, but when Rizzo is angry it permeates the whole room. Even though he’s quieted now, it’s thick in the air, and it’s not just Rizzo. It’s in everyone. Nobody knows what’s wrong with this team or who they’re supposed to blame now. It would be easy enough to throw all the blame on Miggy, but they can’t do that. Even Rizzo can’t, however much he might wish he could. So it settles over them all like a blanket, and nobody speaks to each other.

Kyle can’t breathe in here.

He leaves the clubhouse and runs into Willson and Lackey coming back from their pregame bullpen. “Oh, thank God,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. “I wanted to see you.”

Lackey barely gives him a glance and keeps walking, but Willson stops. He’s still in his gear, chest protector on and mask perched on top of his head.

“What’s up?” Willson slips an arm around Kyle’s waist as he walks down the hall with him. Kyle’s gripped with a _want_ he can’t explain.

Kyle plays it cool. He’s good at that. He jerks his thumb towards the clubhouse. “It’s like a funeral in there.” The team is a mess and Kyle can’t fix it.

“Yeah.” Willson looks troubled. “Miggy. I wouldn’t‘a said what he said.”

_Because you would have thrown out the baserunners_. “I know you wouldn’t have.”

Willson nods. “Your hand?”

“It’s the same.” He shakes his head, then confesses, “I’m going crazy.” He adds a laugh so it’s not as intense.

“Yeah, I get it, man.”

He doesn’t, but Kyle will let him think he does.

It’s not just his hand, it’s that he can’t get Willson Contreras out of his head. Since when did everything he loves about baseball start adding up to Willson? Willson’s energy, Willson’s hard work (even when it’s not easy), Willson’s heart. Kyle thinks about it all the time. Sometimes they lock eyes across the dugout or in the clubhouse and Kyle lets himself imagine -- 

He can’t go there.

If he could just get back on the mound, just start throwing again, letting his pitches land perfectly in Willson’s glove –

Maybe he’d be okay.

“I miss you,” he says to Willson now, because he doesn’t know how else to say it. He _can’t_ say it any other way.

Willson smiles. “I miss you too! Please, get better soon. We need you.”

It isn’t enough when Kyle wishes the “we” was an “I.”

Willson goes out onto the field for the game and Kyle settles into the dugout, feeling worse even though he’d thought Willson would make him feel better.

They lose the game. Kris comes out midway through after rolling his ankle. The universe is dumping salt in their wounds.

June passes Kyle by cruelly, not allowing him another chance on the mound before the month is out.

July comes with the promise of a fresh start, but it isn’t easier, and the All-Star break, when it arrives, is a welcome distraction. Kyle finally heads to Double-A Tennessee for a rehab assignment. He thinks a little time away from the team will be good for him.

The kid behind the plate for his first rehab start is kind of jittery, and it reminds Kyle of how Willson was his first couple of games in the majors. It takes Kyle a minute to figure out what his problem is, then he remembers that this is probably the first time he’s worked with a major league pitcher and that Kyle himself is, well, kind of a big deal.

He isn’t used to that.

The kid settles in quick, though, and so does Kyle. They’re easing him back into the grind of the game, lest he reinjure himself, so he only goes four innings, but he doesn’t allow a hit in those four. Sure, he’s beating up on a bunch of underpaid 20-year-olds, but it still feels good. Feels like he’s himself again.

Tendinitis doesn’t last forever, and neither do bad streaks. The Cubs come out of the All-Star break and immediately get hot, with José Quintana leading the way, and it has Kyle itching to get back. He’ll be down in Tennessee for another week or two, but even watching his team win from afar is better than nothing. Better than sitting in that clubhouse with tension poisoning the air.

Kyle makes it back to the majors at the end of July, and the next time the Cubs win one of his starts is that Saturday, eleven innings in Milwaukee. The win goes on Montgomery’s record, not Kyle’s, but he doesn’t care because it’s like – finally. _Finally_ he feels like he’s contributing. Finally he means something to this team again.

With Montero gone, Willson has the bulk of the catching assignments again, even with Caratini getting called up and with the addition of Avila. Kyle should feel bad for being happy about it, but he doesn’t. He’s happy.

xxx

Willson ends up on the disabled list a few weeks later after straining his hamstring during a loss to San Francisco, because nothing is easy and no one’s untouchable.

If Kyle handled his DL stint poorly, Willson handles his worse. A week after he gets hurt he slumps into a chair next to Kyle in the clubhouse. “I know how you felt now,” he whines. “I hate this.”

It’s been a solid week for the team and Willson wants in on it. Maybe they’d have converted the few losses they took into wins if Willson wasn’t hurt. Kyle shakes his head. “Nobody sympathizes more than me. Trust me.”

“I’m so _bored_ ,” Willson says, spinning in the chair. “I can’t do anything. They won’t let me run, they won’t let me work out really. I want to play.”

Kyle laughs as he ties his shoes. “Are you asking me to help you disobey the doctors and play catch with you?”

Willson sighs. “No.” He eyes Kyle apprehensively. “Would you, if I was?”

“Do you want to get better?” Kyle asks, feeling like he’s talking to a child.

“ _Yes_.” Willson closes his eyes. Kyle drops a hand onto Willson’s knee and Willson, eyes still shut, covers Kyle’s hand with his.

Instinct tells Kyle to move his hand, but this isn’t for himself, it’s for Willson. Kyle clears his throat. “Listen. When I was on the DL, it sucked. After awhile nobody talked to me and it felt like I wasn’t even part of the team.”

Willson opens his eyes. “I’m sorry, I never wanted you to – “

“It’s okay!” Kyle says hastily. He wasn’t looking for sympathy and he doesn’t want to make this about himself. “I’m just saying. If it gets bad, if you need to talk, I’m here. I’m not gonna forget about you just because you got hurt.”

Willson is still looking at him with wide dark eyes. “Kyle, I didn’t forget about you when you were hurt.”

Kyle squeezes his knee gently and then moves his hand. “I know you didn’t. Least I can do is return the favor. So if you need me – “ He catches himself, rephrases. “If you need somebody, don’t hesitate.” He’s self-conscious, so he stands up, busies himself straightening up his locker. “Hey, I’ll see you in the dugout.”

Willson stands up too and moves to lean against the locker next to Kyle’s. They aren’t the only ones in the clubhouse right now, but Willson’s intense gaze makes it feel like they’re alone. Like it does from sixty feet, six inches, even in front of a crowd of thousands. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing?” Kyle isn’t really sure what’s wrong, if anything. There’s this same inexplicable want twisting in his stomach that he doesn’t know what to do with or how to explain. “Don’t worry about it, Willy. Worry about getting healthy.”

A big grin spreads across Willson’s face, like he knows something Kyle doesn’t. “I miss you, too.”

“Well, like I said.” Kyle folds his street clothes and tucks them into his locker. “I’m right here.”

xxx

Willson heals faster than anybody expected him to, and he’s back in the lineup barely a month after his injury. The season is drawing to a close fast, and the Cubs are coasting along nicely – they have the division lead, but the Brewers have been nipping at their heels since the All-Star break, with the Cardinals close behind.

They get swept at home by Milwaukee, which makes the weekend series against St. Louis that much more important.

The series gets off to an auspicious start, because if John Lackey is pitching, there’s always a chance for something explosive. In the fourth inning, the umpire calls what should be the third strike a ball, and on the next pitch the Cardinals pitcher hits a line drive into center that scores a run. John Lackey gets ejected – everyone saw that coming – but Willson isn’t happy either. Everyone in the dugout can see Willson voicing his displeasure with the umpire, but it’s only after the umpire ejects him, too, that Willson explodes.

It takes a combination of Javy Baez and their bench coach Dave Martinez to remove a fuming Willson Contreras from the field, and only after he’s spiked his mask, which hit the ump.

It’s not good, to say the least.

Martinez shoves Willson into the dugout and tells him to stay off the field, but Willson is clearly too angry to sit quietly and he immediately heads for the tunnel to go back to the clubhouse. Kyle watches him go, and he grapples with himself for a moment – to follow or not to follow – and finally he gets up and walks after Willson.

“ _¡No quiero hablar contigo!_ ” Willson snaps without turning around when Kyle reaches the clubhouse. He whirls around, fury etched on his face, but his expression softens when he sees Kyle. “Sorry. I thought you were Martinez.”

Kyle folds his arms across his chest. “That mad at poor Davey, huh?”

Willson’s still in his gear. He pulls his chest protector over his head and drops it to the floor irritably. “Not at him.”

“You okay?” Kyle asks. He’s keeping his distance, because Willson looks like he still might hit something, and while Kyle knows he would never hit _him_ , he’d prefer to stay away from the risk of friendly fire.

Willson glares at him. “It was a _strike_.”

“I know,” Kyle says. “Lackey knows, you know, we all saw.”

Willson rubs his face. “I framed it bad.”

“So what? He should still be able to tell.”

“I didn’t deserve to get tossed.”

“No, you didn’t.” It’s messier now because Willson threw his mask, but they can’t change what’s happened.

Willson paces. He’s still hot, though Kyle wonders if even he is sure what he’s angry about now – his ejection, the bad strike call, or his framing.

“Why’d you follow me?” Willson mutters.

Kyle mulls the question over for a few minutes while Willson paces. “You keep me calm. You’re the only one who did, earlier this year. Just figured…”

“Your turn to do it for me?” Willson laughs a little, but he doesn’t seem amused.

Kyle frowns. “Look, you don’t have to laugh at me.”

Willson waves his words away. “Not at you, man.”

“If you want me to leave you alone – “

Willson shakes his head. “You can stay.” He finally stops pacing in front of Kyle and swivels to face him. “You mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“I keep you calm.”

Kyle clears his throat. “Yeah, uh. I sort of – yeah.” It’s what he’s been wanting to say to Willson since June.

Words stick in his throat, more that he could and should say, and he can’t make himself spit it out, but Willson puts his hand on his cheek. “I didn’t want to push you,” Willson says hesitantly.

They’re so close Kyle’s sure Willson can feel his breath on his face or hear his heart beating. He swallows hard. “I – “

There are footsteps coming down the hall and Kyle and Willson spring apart as if in mutual agreement as Lackey comes into the clubhouse. Lackey’s still fuming as much as if it had just happened, and he barely looks at the two of them.

Kyle meets Willson’s eyes as Lackey stomps around the clubhouse, and summons every ounce of courage he can muster. “Come over after the game?”

xxx

Kyle isn’t sure how he ended up here, in his apartment with Willson Contreras sitting on his couch while he stares blankly into his refrigerator. “Beer? Or do you need something stronger? I have whiskey.”

“Whiskey,” Willson says, and lets out a heavy sigh. Kyle lets the fridge swing shut and pours a little whiskey into two glasses, because he’s not feeling fancy.

He hands one of the glasses to Willson and sits down next to him, clinks their glasses together. “Cheers.” They both drink; Willson makes a face and sets his glass down.

The last time they saw each other outside the field was back at the radio station. Kyle doesn’t think they’ve ever been alone together, just the two of them, however much Willson makes him feel like they have.

The alcohol tastes sharp but it’s calming his nerves.

Then again, why shouldn’t he be calm? It’s Willson. It’s just Willson.

“You okay?” Willson asks gently.

Kyle laughs. “Am _I_ okay? I was worried about you.”

Willson groans. “I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have thrown the mask, I’ll apologize to the umpire tomorrow.”

“I’m not about to lecture you, God, that’s not my job.” He takes another sip of whiskey, thinks he’s probably going to have to pour himself more. “I’m just – you know. Checking in. As a friend.”

“As a friend.” Willson smiles, almost to himself, but it’s definitely amused. Again, like he knows something Kyle doesn’t. “That really it?”

Yeah, Kyle needs more whiskey. He gets up and goes to the kitchen to refill his glass. “Willy, you _know_.”

“You’re never nervous, Kyle. Why are you nervous?”

Kyle pours the whiskey and sets the bottle aside. “I’m afraid of what you’ll say, I guess.”

“Kyle, Kyle, Kyle!” Willson jumps up and goes to him. “Don’t.” He laughs. “I’m not scary anyway, am I?”

Kyle smiles. “No.”

Willson takes the whiskey glass out of his hand and sets it on the counter. He grabs Kyle by the hand and rubs his thumb over his fingers. “Quit bein’ scared, then,” he says, and kisses him.

Kyle can’t help the shaky “ _oh_ ” that escapes his lips before he starts kissing him back.

It’s _so_ much easier not to be afraid of what Willson might say when Willson is kissing him. It’s so much easier not to be afraid of anything.

Willson’s hands go to his hips and hold him in place firmly. Kyle wraps his arms around him and leans into him, chasing the taste of the whiskey on his tongue.

They go to the bedroom. Kyle will swear up and down tomorrow this isn’t why he asked Willson to come over, but he isn’t stopping this, doesn’t want to. Their clothes come off haphazardly and Kyle trips kicking off his jeans and feels ridiculous, but Willson’s laughter isn’t unkind.

Willson is a comfortable weight pressing Kyle into the mattress, but he touches him reverently, like he’s something delicate and breakable. That almost makes Kyle laugh, but it also makes his heart so full he feels like he could cry. He grabs Willson by the back of the head and pulls him down to kiss him, pushes his tongue into his mouth, and he could get lost in this.

xxx

Kyle wakes the next morning to something tickling his face, but it’s just his cat, perched on the edge of his bed and flicking his nose with his tail. Kyle smiles and reaches out to stroke him before he leaps away and goes to the door, waiting for Kyle to come feed him.

Willson isn’t next to him in bed, but Kyle can hear him moving around in the kitchen, and Willson appears a moment later with two mugs of coffee. He raises one questioningly at Kyle, and Kyle nods. “Thanks.” He takes the proffered mug and sips, letting the coffee warm him from the inside out.

Willson sits down next to him. “Didn’t know if you like sugar.”

It seems strange that Willson doesn’t know, but Kyle realizes he doesn’t know how Willson takes his coffee either. He makes a mental note to learn. “Black’s fine.” He gets up, skimming his fingers across Willson’s shoulderblades. “I’ll make breakfast.”

Willson follows him into the kitchen and sits down at the table. He watches Kyle fill the cat’s dish. “Who feeds your cat when you’re gone?”

Kyle shrugs. “Neighbors, usually. Sometimes friends.” He goes to the stove and takes out a pan. “You like scrambled eggs?”

“Sounds good.” Willson rests his elbow on the table, chin in hand. “Got a call this morning. They wanna suspend me.”

Kyle turns around. This isn’t surprising, given Willson’s physical contact with the umpire, but it’s not good news. “How long?”

“Two games, so.” Willson shrugs. “I’ll appeal it, I guess, see if I can get it reduced. I didn’t mean to hit him, you know.” 

“I know.” Kyle cracks several eggs into the pan. “You’ll play today, though, right?”

“Yeah.” He raps his knuckles on the table and grins. “Don’t worry, I gotcha today.”

Kyle smiles, and it feels like the most genuine smile he’s given in months. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.”

“I think I do,” Willson says happily.

Kyle slides a plate of eggs and a fork across the table to Willson, then sits down with his own. “Am I that transparent?”

“Nah.” Willson shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “You got a good pokerface. I just know you.”

If there’s anybody he wants to know him that well, it’s Willson. “You’ve got a good pokerface too, apparently.”

Willson grins, and it’s the same look he’s been giving him for weeks when Kyle’s gotten flustered. “Like I said, I wasn’t gonna rush you. I was just waiting.”

“For what?” Kyle asks.

Willson shrugs. “You had to figure out what you wanted.”

Kyle wants a lot of things. A lot of them are hard to admit to himself. He gets up and walks around the table, then leans down and kisses Willson.

It’s as good as he remembers from last night. Willson’s hand lingers on the back of his neck when he pulls away, like he isn’t ready to let go.

They go to the field together, and they beat the Cardinals 4-1. Kyle goes 7.2 innings and gets a standing ovation when he comes out of the game. It’s one of the best – maybe the best – game he’s pitched all year.  

Willson’s suspension gets reduced to one game and he serves it when they’re in Tampa the following week. It’s the last road trip of the regular season, and it’s a long one, close to two weeks. Kyle and Willson don’t really spend more time together than they used to – not during the day. Willson has slipped down the hall to Kyle’s hotel room a few nights. They talk a lot. It turns out they have a lot to talk about. Kyle feels like everything he’s been trying to keep closed in is suddenly pouring out of him, and he can’t bring himself to care. Maybe it’s a good thing, coming unwound like this.

(And yeah, the sex isn’t bad either, but Kyle’s trying not to make that the main point.)

September fades into October quietly. They’ve clinched, so the last few games don’t matter much. Kyle spends days enjoying his time off before the NLDS begins, and his nights mapping every inch of Willson Contreras with his mouth and fingertips.

xxx

They lose the NLCS after the team finally runs out of steam and falters. The only good thing about losing in the playoffs on their home field is that they can go straight home – no worrying about a hotel or a sad plane ride.

They’re back in Kyle’s bedroom a couple of hours after the game ends. Willson’s pissed off, there’s no getting around it, but he’s subdued rather than explosive, like every bit of his energy was used up during the baseball season.

“Hey.” Kyle sits down on the bed and holds out his hand. Willson takes it and Kyle tugs him down next to him. “It happens.”

“What, losing? No shit.”

Kyle remembers 2015, losing the NLCS, getting _swept_ , which is better than what happened this year, at least. Willson remembers 2016 and winning it all. “Next year,” Kyle says. “We’ll do it again.”

“Lose?”

Kyle gives him a shove, laughing in spite of himself. “Shut up.” But yeah, probably. It’s a lot easier to lose than it is to win.

Willson pushes Kyle’s shirt up to expose his stomach. “Take this off,” he says, so Kyle does. Willson nudges him onto his back and leans over him, kisses him hard. He yanks his own shirt over his head and throws it on the floor, then slings an arm over Kyle’s chest and collapses against him. “I’m tired,” he says, voice muffled.

Kyle trails his fingers up Willson’s spine, which makes him shiver. “Me too.” Long day, hard loss. Willson’s pressing gentle kisses to Kyle’s neck and chest, and Kyle moves his hand to the back of his head. “What are you doing over the offseason?”

“Back to Venezuela, I guess,” Willson says between kisses. “Going home.”

“Yeah, me too.” He absently rubs the back of Willson’s neck. “I guess California’s a little closer than Venezuela.” He hasn’t really thought about the fact that they’d have to say goodbye after the postseason. It always feels like it will last forever when you’re in it, and then it can end in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll see you in January, though, right? The fan convention.” Willson folds his arms on top of Kyle’s chest and rests his chin on them, tired eyes fixed on Kyle’s.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“You look upset.”

Kyle shakes his head. “I’m gonna miss you. I feel like we haven’t had enough time.” He’s tired of missing Willson. He felt like he missed him all season long up until September, and it’s been barely a month.

“I’ll call you,” Willson says.

“It’s not the same.”

Willson grins. “Why? You only want one thing from me?” Slowly he moves a hand down Kyle’s chest and stomach.

“You know that’s not true,” Kyle says with a laugh.

“Still.” Willson leans in and kisses him. “I’ll miss you too,” he announces, “but it’ll be January soon.”

“Do you think – “

Willson unbuttons Kyle’s pants and pushes a hand inside. “Stop thinking,” he orders, so Kyle does.

xxx

_January 2018_

“It’s a bad question, Willy.”

“Yeah, but if you _had_ to choose.” They’re on their way to Kyle’s after the first day of Cubs Convention. Willson was true to his word – the two of them spoke plenty on the phone and Skype the past couple of months, but it isn’t as good as being with him. Kyle’s missed his presence like crazy, and now Willson wants to play twenty questions?

“What if I asked _you_ to choose?”

“I asked you first.” Willson bounces on the balls of his feet, grinning all over his face as Kyle unlocks his apartment door.

Kyle gets the door open and pulls Willson inside, then shoves him back up against the door. He brings his lips close enough just to brush Willson’s, then says, “I wouldn’t choose. I choose both. You _and_ baseball.” Kyle can’t live without baseball, Willson knows that, but he’s starting to think he can’t live without Willson either.

He looks at Willson where he’s got him pinned against the door and thinks about _wants_. He thinks about 200 innings, he thinks about 20 wins. He thinks about Cy Young awards and rings. He thinks about Willson being behind the plate for all of it. “You can’t make me choose between the two most important things.”

Willson’s eyes glitter. “Greedy,” he says, though he looks pleased. He shoves at Kyle to try and get free, but Kyle pushes him harder against the door and kisses him. It’s deep and wet and more than a little bit desperate, because they haven’t seen each other in two and a half months.

“Real mature way to gauge how much I like you, by the way,” Kyle says when they pause for breath.

“I didn’t go to any smarty-pants college like you,” Willson says. “Don’t know any better way.”

 “Hmm.” Kyle lowers his head to Willson’s neck and gently mouths at the curve of his shoulder. “And which would you choose, me or baseball?”

Willson laughs. “I wouldn’t choose.”

“So it was a trick question.”

“Would I trick you?” Willson smirks at him, all smug and warm at the same time. “ _Te adoro, lo sabes_.”

“I like hearing it again.” He strokes Willson’s face. He wants so many things, but it’s almost like they’re all at his fingertips now. “I want you catching me all season.”

“I want that too.”

“I want to be a 20-game winner and win the Cy Young.”

“I said you were greedy,” Willson says with barely concealed glee.

“You like it.”

Willson shoves at him again, grinning. “Yeah. I like this side of you.”

“I want spring training to start, like, tomorrow.” Kyle presses his body into Willson’s. “But right now I want you to fuck me.”

“Greedy _and_ bossy,” Willson says with feigned disapproval. “You can’t have everything.”

“I can, too,” Kyle says. Now that he knows what he wants, he’s more than willing to take the plunge. He lets go of Willson and backs away. “Come in here and help me get it.”  

xxx

Pitching, it turns out, is about trust. Every time Kyle takes the mound, there’s a lot he can control, sure – the way the ball spins, the velocity his fastball can hit, the way he pitches to each hitter, and when to make a pickoff throw to first – but Kyle isn’t the only person on the field, and there’s so much going on around him that he can’t control.

He trusts the infield. Their defense is among the best in baseball, and if a ball gets past him, he knows Javy or Kris will scoop it up.

He trusts himself. He’s found if he thinks too hard about what he’s doing, it messes with his head and his hands. A deep breath before the game starts, and the knowledge that he is who he is – that he’s good enough – should be enough to get him through.

He trusts his catcher. He’s found that there’s no relationship more important when he’s on the mound than the one with the person behind the plate, and he’s been lucky for his whole career to have excellent ballplayers calling his games.

It’s Willson almost every day, and every game together makes them stronger. Willson knows Kyle and Kyle knows him, and he knows that Willson will always do what’s best for the team and for Kyle. Still, every pitch can feel a little like a trust fall.

Willson would never let him hit the ground.

His eyes lock on Willson’s from sixty feet, six inches away. Willson shifts a little and drops down the sign.

Kyle nods, takes a deep breath, and throws.

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% fiction. I don't pretend anything in this fic was factually accurate. However, when it comes to the parts of this that involve actual games, any inaccuracies are my fault and can be explained in one of two ways: I either did not know, or I knew, and chose to ignore in favor of telling a better story.
> 
> Shoutout to youtube for having condensed versions of almost every game EVER available. I watched A LOT of those.
> 
> Feel free to come find me on tumblr [here](https://on-a-kiss-god-knows.tumblr.com/)


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